


Rodfæstet

by ThereminVox



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereminVox/pseuds/ThereminVox
Summary: A true connectionRooted in frequenciesBut no waves skipping the lineAnd leaving the other unsafeAfter all this confirmationHow can you still doubtAt the roots knit just deepHow much more do you wantIf you were to turn your back on meIf you were to grow from meI do not know the way to goI do not know the way





	1. Inner City Pigeon

Four walls and a depression illustrate the captive’s anomalous confinement. Said captive, a woman, was addressed by the name of Tabitha Galavan. Professional assassin and certified Femme Fatale. Out of a roll call of potential abductees, she, alone, would be classed the abductor. Atop the food chain, _ she _ was the killer to blind prey. 

Slowly, her head rises from induced stupor.

All senses, heightened to a crescendo, straining to pierce the fog of consciousness. 

Strapped and gagged to an apparatus derivative of Hannibal’s restraint. Scents of dissolved chlorine wafting in whetted torrents, accosting the olfactory organ as a scented alarm. 

Shadows tango across bedimmed eyes. 

Whispers. Susurrations.

Adjusting to pricking imbalance of brightness and contrast, pupils distend, pursy to contend. 

The blindfold constricting them was as a tourniquet to the wounded mind’s eye. 

Distance between: tenuous; thinning.

Stretching like the leather binds hugging slight yet thewy wrists. With arrant futility, she tugs against these clinging restraints to no avail, groans composing reverberations of symphony to vacant audience. 

On cue, her predator of the evening stalks forth. His entrance, nothing short of grand. Rhythmic tapping of dress shoes stride, savoury suspense tailing the heel. 

The closer the tempo, the closer her steel heart tintinnabulates in time, stilling at the sudden increase in temperature, if only minuscule.

A shift in the air.

Then, a spike in vision. 

It was easy to deduce her unconscious state having been prolonged, for the measure it takes for sight to adjust and focus are met by an agonising stab of seconds. 

Both stunned and concussed, she squints before blinking twice. Tabitha hasn’t an inkling to his identity. A frown extends to meet the vertex of his angled elbow, one hand resting on a slim, pinstripe hip, studying her with clinical scrutiny.

Stealthy is his ominous greeting.

Uncertain of himself. 

Of the hour and place. 

Tricks of the light glinting in his aberrant pigment of iris. 

Pretense to stall. 

* * *

Selectively mute and cautious. Reluctantly, a shiver of unease fractures her stoic reproach. Quickly remedied upon reminding confinement.

“_Do I know you?”_ Snark in spades. 

Condescending is the smirk she receives. 

“No….” A monotone of finality, dropping, by declivity, to an ellipsis under harsh, sterile lighting. “_But__, you will.”_

Exhausted (and largely out of character), she huffs a tendril of onyx from her florid face. 

“What is this? Some kind of BDSM hazing?”

Murmurs.

“Are you supposed to be head Dom here?”

More murmurs. Unheard. Vacuous.

“I know people.” The period is wringed by a smug, if not absurd, huffing laugh. 

“If they find out I’m missing and hold you responsible, _ you’re dead _.”

Distant voices, oscillating in asymmetry.

“By the looks of it, it’s pretty obvious you haven’t met your match.” Still, she struggles.

“But, I’ll humour you.”

Inane in emphasis. 

“Why am I here?”

Jeremiah appears only marginally pleased with her final query. For all she knew, the foundation caking his face may have inhibited proper emotional expression. A die cast mold of once benign features steadily frozen in a Petri dish of disease. Permitting only tepid to demented smiles in thawing range.

“You’re _ here… _ to rectify that.”

Tabitha stares at him like a homunculus has sprouted from his <strike> insufferably adorable </strike>nose.

“Let me get this straight. You kidnap me… because you’ve taken an interest?” 

She can’t possibly fathom how this pretty boy clown proclaims an attraction to her when this was, contestably, their first encounter. 

Lurid eyes, ever so slightly widened, return the stare, complemented by a creepy smile, resembling that preserved in sculpting a doll. 

Undoubtedly, a stranger… 

Yet, the more she analyses his features, the more his presence seems to register from an earlier period. He looks familiar, but… _different_ from what she remembers. Beyond the subtle yet intricate changes in cosmetic arrangement. 

“I’m flattered.”

An arid retort, void of sincerity.

“But, we _ literally _ just met. And abducting the object of your affection isn’t a promising approach.“

Visible offence reddens the scarlet hue of his pout. 

“Maybe you’ve mistaken me for one of those girls who secretly fantasise about obsessive boyfriends…”

One grievous expression offers a definitive threat of appetizer. 

”But, it’s one that might cost you your life.”

The sarcastic lilt of her voice counters against his blank expression. Nasally sighing, she is steady in her dispensing of acerbic seasoning.

“Still... I have to ask... Why me?”

Jeremiah’s responding grin is coy. Scanning his prey from head to toe, a smug sigh of satisfaction emits. 

“I’m glad you ask.”

Tabitha flinches as a gloved finger traces her jaw. She finds his touch is not patronising, but reverential. There is an intimacy to the way he grasps her chin with surprisingly gentle force, beseeching her to lock gazes with him. It invokes a terror of which surpasses that of the static suspense. Further elevating the hovered query of her fate. A recent blossom of bourbon crops from his taste buds, floral notes of the spirit awakening a drought.

Since Gotham plunged to the sewers, the Iceberg Lounge, AKA her only feasible option for liquor that wasn’t denatured or dubious rotgut, had since been controlled by a gang of nondescript thugs following Penguin’s departure as mayor.

Consequently, feelings akin to withdrawal symptoms were wont to manifest, exacerbated by pangs of dehydration cropping along the desiccated expanse of numbing taste buds. 

“Well, it’s quite simple, really. Such beauty…” When the pad of his index taps her nose, she rears at him with snapping teeth. 

“Such… _ ferocity. _Is far too astounding to be flaunted so liberally. Especially to those uncouth heathens running amok in moral decay. I couldn’t resist the opportunity. A kairos presented itself and, in return, the infamous brush of your stroke was passed down to me.”

He was a wraith in the pale moonlight. Etiolated complexion of powdered pores casting faint sheen from metallic shafts of moonlight, filtered from windows, shattered. Accentuating his smooth temple, a prominent outline of bone, detracted only by subtle arch of ebon streaking each perfectly contoured brow. They were peerless to the deep infusion of Stygian combing his immaculate head with discreet highlights of chartreuse. 

Tabitha begrudgingly admits that he’s handsome. Disregarding resemblance to a walking corpse. Miraculously, sewing the gap between sickly and salutary.

Hypocritical, it was. With her unwavering love for Cyrus, even whilst zombified, she should be the last to criticise. 

“What do you want from me?” 

A drawn sigh he releases, all novelty of tedium having since worn to a single strand of invisibility. 

“And here, I thought the chains and whips would be evident.” 

The peccable sedation of nimble fingers unbuckling the strap that hugs her abdomen sends insects of exhilaration in welts, not only signalling a tense of anticipated release, but also, much to her horror, a shivering hint of arousal. 

“_I want **you**_.”

A simple yet lucid declaration, composed with such gale of conviction, she nearly feels hypnotised. Compelled by a spell. Was it any wonder he was the leader of a pseudo-religious cult? Yet to be betrayed to her still oblivious knowledge.

“Viscera to loin, this gnawing incubus of obscene appetence wishes to devour you, quickly, selfishly away from covetous eyes. My undenied desire, to marinate in the carmine flowing lotic beneath your skin. Relishing the copper scent like a fine wine as it drains, from inchoate prelude to intricate finale, leaving men and women verklempt the likes of which the most prepossessing siren could only go mad in efforts of obtaining. An exsanguinating essence... unmatched to that yearned from the nectar of Cleopatra.”

Conclusively, his whisper is a warm ache to the absence of sound.

_”Exquisite_.”

_ Clearly, this guy uses cocaine as his foundation. _

She’s baffled as to how. Considering his attire, he _should_ be able to afford the entire Sephora franchise. 

“Great. You’re a vampire. Any other freaks of nature you want to embody?”

“Just you.”

The pricking tips of his pointed smile are no less unnerving. At present, their softened edges do nil to relax fraught nerves. Having an inventory of experience in similar scenarios, she knew exactly what to expect from men like him. The only query left remaining was why this situation seemed so patently unpredictable, in spite of empirical anecdote. 

“For your sake, it pains me to say.”

A mocking gesture for jesters.

“Whoever painted your picture before was little more than an insensitive brute. A beast without proper grace to its pursy face. Butch Gilzean, was it?” The disgusted look he sneers nearly send Tabitha over the edge. “_Beastly names for beastly men._”

Jeremiah is unflinching as her vicious snarls reach his ear. With a manic grin, he marvels at the sheer volume of its range deflecting against the neglected pool walls. 

Quickly, he dismisses her. _Before_ she can be rabied at the mouth, contentious inquiry dribbling from plush lips with undue concern, salivating for the location and safety of a creature once hulking about as _Solomon Grundy_.

Rather, he should say, his bloated cadaver. 

“Ah, yes”, he says, waving her off in monotone. “How callous of me. Only Romeo dies in this tragedy.”

His own lips press in mockery of regret.

“Apologies. It seems my capacity to express respect for the dead since expired with the rest of my family. Which reminds me...”

Stepping back, relinquishing personal space.

Pauses. 

Grants her a moment’s grace to regain balance. Weak from hunger, she wonders how long it’s been since drugged to slumber. Surely, a mirror had to be near.

“Has a name registered by now?”

Boyish charm points a dip at either edge of curved temple, affronted by only Lucifer knows what. 

”I should hope I’m not _ that _ forgettable.”

“Make that ‘punchable’.”

Glassy-eyed, dormant and veiled. She’s motionless. Distraught towards the unknown. Of tragedy skimming the horizon with portent omen. Of tarot cards dealing an ace of Death to a bereaved lover.

Stoicism, stringent. Relentless in motion. An immovable object meets an unstoppable force. Any sudden movement would be fool’s play. Knowing not to bray with dissidence. Showing not a flicker of betrayal. 

Once more, he circumambulates the medieval contraption. There’s a seduction to his movement. Graceful lechery composed as a touching melody. 

“That silver tongue of yours is what has me entangled.”

Emphatically, fingers glide through her hair, bunched in a ponytail, dishevelled. Until the band containing it loosens; produces a thud to the filth comprising this drained cavity. 

“My _dear_ twin brother.”

Strangely enough, massaging her scalp, reflexively tilting back in offer. Senses receptive to his sensual caress.

“Sorely missed. Never forgotten.”

Within earshot, a sarcasm detector was beeping erratically.

“A certain ginger maniac beloved by a great many of these hapless, untrained animals.”

_No... it couldn’t be. _

“Thanks to Jongleur, I’ve adopted a term of endearment for them.”

_Jerome._

“_Inner city pigeons. _”

Now, that was a name she was all too familiar. How haunting it was. Discovering that the little fucker had a twin brother only serves to exacerbate the stinging pangs of disorientation spreading a bleary film over straining eyes, combatting the threat of sleep.

_How potent was that drug?_

Furthermore, based on experience, shouldn’t this fraternal abomination be magnetised to Barbara?

Maybe he wasn’t one to be fucked with.

“As for how I discovered you…”

A clapboard manifests by the sonic soprano of his hands. Absurdly enough, a blonde head peeks from the gated wound of the entrance anterior. Clown makeup inverted, a goofy beam brightens her face with crazed elation.

“I had my lovely assistant comb through GCPD’s record annex to file a background check.” 

Just as quickly as she creeps, she vanishes with a slow fade back into whatever recess she emerged. 

“I’m bored with this charade. Let me go.”

“As am I.”

A totality of teeth sucking.

“However, you won’t be freed unless you comply.”

“Why don’t you just blow off some steam and fuck your assistant, if you’re so desperate for control.”

At this impudent retort, he intakes a sharp breath of disapproval, tsking at her dogged defiance. 

“_Tabitha._” 

The fluidity of her name rolling off his tongue is sinful as it is exotic. 

“This heat can only be staved off for so long. Eventually, the animal will resurface.”

“Hm... vampire... Or werewolf...”

Perplexity becomes miscible with smudging tint of vermillion lipstick.

“The former is more believable.”

Has Barbs noticed her absence?

Garish eyes threaten to roll back into rigid skull. Her cheek was endearing, to be sure. Still, he continues, as if uninterrupted. 

“What’s most intriguing to me…” 

It takes a special might to deny her hand the reflex of meeting his face halfway as said face is irrefutably close, a low voice of honey trickling against the shell of her ear.

“Is how you appear to be quite the artefact for historical figures. Sibling to Theo Galavan. Who experienced acute dissociation and coped by committing a scandalous hoax of modern identity theft.”

Seemingly delighted, his sampling size of proximity is thoroughly sated.

”But, there is one other curious character. However minuscule the arrangement, you and I have shared the same connection.”

Tabitha is crestfallen. Worn and weary with physical and mental fatigue. Determined in resolve, she’s only marginally pleased with her capacity to digest the revelation presented. The twitching vein of her temple begs to differ.

Butch. Her cherished bear of a heart. Deceased... 

Frustration supplies her with the necessary strength to not succumb to an onslaught of lachrymose slumber. With closed eyes, she complies. If only to hasten the possibility of release. 

“I don’t normally beg.”

One of Jeremiah’s fleeked eyebrows quirk imperceptibly at this quip.

“But, please. If you’re _ anything _ like that fucking alpha geek of riddles, just kill me now. Dispose me to those degenerates in the Dark Zone.”

Fearful of acknowledging the man steadily stood behind, she crosses her arms impatiently, expectantly. The itch to move of her own volition expands to a near impossible reach.

“On second thought, killing me would be your safest bet.”

Oops.

“While you still have the chance.”

The faintest flicker of annoyance twitches his flawless temple. He supposed the hour of owl light assists in mitigating the otherwise rising temper that may threaten to manifest.

As Ecco was only apt at _ pretending _ to conjure the pneuma of a dozen ditzy blondes merged to one, in the security of solitude, she would often offer wise counsel in service of regulating his tendency towards repressed anger. 

“Are you not curious as to who this mystery character is?”

Oddly, he makes a show of searching the atmosphere. As if making an effort to communicate with the dead.

_“You’re related to him... _ In more ways than one.”

Tabitha ponders this, a frown marring her brow. There was yet more to be betrayed under luminescence. A hidden gleam of mischievous desire, inconspicuous to the naked eye. Adhering to standards of manner, Jeremiah is sedated in permitting his own fleshly bent to materialise in substance. Nevertheless, the narrator insists upon accenting his rigid spasm of glee, visualising the sight of the woman before him, naked. Perceptible. 

“Theo is dead...”

Not quite. Perhaps so. Visible to ravenous eyes of the living souls opposed to eunuchs. Consistently at war with himself, his crass musings are fettered to mouldering walls, left to starve in a penitentiary of neglected repressions. Still, they hæmorrhage, internally. Eternally severed glands, flooding a mind, reputed as sound, with confliction. The fury seethes with indecision.

“Not Theo. Someone else… _ ancient._”

Tabitha feels emboldened by a cheeky smile. 

“Release me, and _ maybe _ I’ll engage in your little game.”

At this, his jaw tenses once more, paralysed in balance between scales of gallows, indulging her request at the expense of surrender to baser instinct. He doesn’t _ want _to kill her. He’d sooner fuck her into submission before settling to enact that distressing necessity. The thought of his virgin cock nestled deep in her tight little entrance, resistant, is enough wind to cast aside the stifling carnality.

Imagining the inching slither of his tongue saturated in a sapid, viscous coating of cunt whilst revelling in her helpless mewls as he feasts as a man famished, giving no quarter or mercy. Committing each chord to memory as a harmony to be replayed along all delirious journeys of calenture through the Land of Nod. 

Vile and inelegant though he finds it, he’s observed and anatomised his fair share of porn through a strictly educational lens. Enough so to assist in cultivating his inexperience to an insurmountable libido of influence. 

All in vain, as his attempt to moderate is brief and expendable. 

Her nose wrinkles at the stench of stale whisky as he accosts her with a viper’s velocity. His features are placid yet the pointed tip of his eyes deceive them. 

“You’ll _ engage_, my dear_. _ Because you’re my guest. And there can be no room for rude guests in this house.”

With eyes narrowed, she’s tempted to spit in his face, but refrains. 

“It’s not often I’m given to use this word so freely. But, _please_... do alleviate your nerves of any thought at evasion. Unfortunately, I’ve betrayed myself as the jealous type. I would advise you to think only of me during the limited time we have for the next two days.”

Never enough time to recognise the increasingly convoluted measure if it. 

“I told her, the world could only ever be a stopwatch in motion. Never a timer. Now, she only ever ticks. Seldom ever tocks. In the grand scheme.”

Tabitha struggles to keep the muscles in her face hibernating, oppugnant to an opacity of jocosity creeping to splinter and possess the ligaments. 

“....What the hell are you talking about?”

“An echo… _ a stain._”

A crease of disdain to underscore his smile’s ghosting falter. 

“What matters is that I have _ you_. A viable replacement.”

Finally, he permits her with Newton’s First Law of Motion. Nudging her with a playful, if not bony, pressure of fingerpads against her lower back.

“For what purpose, you ask?”

An army arrives on the scene. A legion of colourfully eldritch characters. Implicit, is the call. Eerie and preternatural, the scene evinces. 

“Tries to express affection in the only way I know and rejection is the solution to my equation...” 

He shakes his head, curtly nodding assent to the Children of the Corn surrounding them both. Secretly, she side-eyes their presence. 

_Bastard... If anything happens to these poor kids..._

_“_Come._”_

One kid, dressed in full uniform, approaches her, one arm angled behind his back as the other is positioned ahead in offering. The ‘come’ was directed to her. Admittedly, she was getting nervous.

“I think I’ve overstayed my welcome... Let’s just-“

”_Shh..._”

Whispers. Susurrations.

”_Don’t fight it._”

This time, the drug hits in full force. A pounding sensation of fist to sore temple. Transition of cool temperatures to warm in a single resuscitation. 

Jeremiah has exhausted his final sigh of the night. _Admirable_, he thinks of her diligence. Unfortunately, one could never be too certain. In this case, _trusting_. Humans were a fickle bunch. 

Expectation was directly proportional to disappointment. To not be cooperative was to be expected.

A disappointment, nonetheless. 

* * *

“_Darling... I do hope you’ll pardon my disruption upon waking. The vim and vigour I feel simply couldn’t be contained, I just had to inform you of all the wonderful things I have planned for us. The cage I’ve prepared for you was designed in such a way that would make even Sisyphus weep. Perhaps, I fancy myself a Houdini, but this particular deadbolt was engineered with a haptic drive. In summary, the implementation of fingerprint recognition can only authorise access by my touch alone. Isn’t that neat?_”

* * *

_Fucking hell..._

A vegetable.

The most pertinent description she can muster as to her current state of mind is comparable to vegetation. 

* * *

“_Jervis_!”

Pillows relative in texture to cumulus clouds on a bittersweet Summer’s eve. This is the topographic outline she lays upon, groggy, deafened and nebulous to the commotion stirring. 

“_What will tonight’s serving be, sir? Tumultuous vortex or tempestuous blur?_”

”_Anything but amnesia_.”

A silent but deadly warning.

Shadows waltzing across lids of iridescence, obnubilated.

Tick, tock, presents the prickling shock.

“_Try as you might. Fight as you will. Your wings have been clipped, so no jumping from this hill. Only running; sprinting. Yet, only so far. Your suitor summons you. Best not delay! As a dark night is fell to light of day, so too shall you, to watery grave, be cast away..._”

* * *

A sinking dip in the concave of mattress. Blusters of heated breath panting in her heedless ear. 

“_Fly away, if you so desire._”

An ear yet to hearken ominous treaty.

_“This nest will await your return with brimstone and fire.” _

* * *

The kiss he leaves upon her sanguine forehead sears a branding mark of fatal possession. In one fell swoop, it bleeds, burns, cauterises, feigns healing. 

_Graze._

_Stitch._

_Repeat._

_Rewound._

_**Rooted**._

> “_Sweet dreams... my__ inner city pigeon.” _


	2. Augury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is actually considering investment in this, it isn’t much, but I had to post _something_, lest this be yet another orphaned child in my family of pretermitted works. 
> 
> Consider it a prelude.  
A puzzling hint for what should come...
> 
> Then again... brevity is, indeed, the soul of wit.

For the first time in 15 years, Jeremiah can manipulate his serpent’s tongue in a benign way. With arrant fluency, he could say that his sense of emotional stability was well and truly placid. Not a ripple of trepidation or dissatisfaction could be cast by the bitter pebbles of lonesome incubi. Briefly, he contemplates upon why he would persist. Why _ should _ he continue to pine for lost brothers and lovers, when he could propagate anew? 

Exhausted were his attempts at possession. Henceforth, he is decided that strikethroughs would forever ink through every Bruce Wayne or Jerome Valeska that would dare to converge along his path. Momentarily, his living arrangements were winding; serpentine. Redundant to add further insult to injury with involuted musings. Suffice to say, his exuberant alter ego was especially animated today. 

_ Today _ was the ‘big day’.

Admittedly, he had never planned for this as he did with his brother. Just as well for that jilting chimera of a boy he was rathe to call ‘_ friend’ _. That alone, may well have been cause for alarm. Certainly, he could sympathise with his captivating capture. Indeed, the question lingers as to why he had chosen her. A minor, supporting, doubly wasted utility of a character... Hardly intending to intersect the acute angles of his contorted geometric patterns. Of a perplexed inkwell and quill imposing the throne as insoluble equation. Dissolute, irrational numbers, absent operators. By this very fact or act, he supposed he was doing the vixen a favour. Rewarding her with the proper attention she so undisputedly deserves. 

All to remain was an equal sign preceding the lone solution. Yet, the arrangement is no less miscible. A thickening agent needed to be applied to this viscid substance he finds himself losing friction. As a matter of course, his integral function of brooding was laid bare before an altar. A prime integer, bred by outliers, to confess its sin of inhumanity to a god of passion and personality.

Amid fevered chrysanthemums and delirious droughts, the gardens of his mind’s eye were beginning to abate in their bent towards the wicked grain. Jerome, the sadistic, impulsive farmer, need no longer be feared in his arrival to replenish the harvest. In a manner, natural only to his deformed sickle, there was but a grotesque abrasion to his method. The attendant madness, escorting as no less than disoriented; hence, unfit to wield complex machinery. 

As the head rots, vines moulder at the simplest trajectory of his leering sight. For what it was worth, there was no use in demonising what was already expired to chthonic depths. At least, by instinct of technicality, this would evince as his tactic to pacify the night terrors, should they ever arise. Guilt was ever the lasting stain upon his liquified conscience. 

Often, he ponders the betrayal with a simple inquiry of quiet exclamation.

What did _ ‘friend’ _ mean?

A word so wrongfully abused.

Confused; contused. 

For that matter, in what manner was ‘love’ to be interpreted? Could it be defined by decapitating a pencil with anxious teeth, eager to be noticed by that grade school crush, tongue-tied? Or was it instead illustrated by the extremities of attraction? One that seduces the gentleman to savagery. Resultantly, an identity crisis was trailing a rope, multiplied to the tenth power, marauding about the passages of his psyche as an error in notation. 

_ Tabitha plus Jeremiah. _

Just one short a letter from semantic symmetry. Fortunately, devoid of that noisome tree. 

Rather, he would have them sitting in the Palace of Versailles, if she so pleased. 

But, enough purple prose and pompous allegory. 

Forsooth, there was a certain mare’s nest to contend with. 

Fortunate was the circumstance, for he should think his little canary far too pretty to find flight within a mere cage. More feline than canine and, per chance, deserving of a chalice of game fit for only purebred variants. A pet, unrivalled, in the cockpit. Yes… he would place his bets at liberty. Recklessly. Flaunting his abounding wealth of ego. 

Today was a day for revival. 

Roses; blood.

Copper-scented pine cones. 

Titillating the olfaction. 

Jeremiah and Jesus. 

Could he be so bold?

To contrast and compare? 

To christen and blaspheme.

Compulsion, irresistible. 

Desire to redeem. 

God only knows his brother was beyond saving. He believes, instead, he could save _her_...

Too bad God was dead. 

What’s worse is that he lives on through something corporal and ill-bred. 

God could be anyone. 

Parasol in hand, strolling to the looking glass, so eager to invite him within, compelling his teeth to the Granny Smith of sin. 

Sans ignominy, he utters it with liberty.

Asserts the blasphemy as an indentured servant, made free. 

Scarlet lips form the curse as a solemn plea. 

A staid orison, entreating the eye to see. 

In the looking glass, shattered; fractured by Cimmerian shade, he assures himself, earnestly:

* * *

“** _God…_ ** _ could be me. _”

**Author's Note:**

> Recycling fever dreams as compelling narratives seems to be my recurring niche.
> 
> If only false advertising wasn’t underscored by ‘compelling’...


End file.
